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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945863">The Burning (SBI Rust FanFic)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake6656/pseuds/blake6656'>blake6656</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rust (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brotherly Bonding, Gen, Loosely canon, Mentioned Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Wilbur Soot, Slight Canon Divergence, Strangers to Brothers, Survival, Violence, Wilbur and Tommy are Siblings (not blood related), Wilderness Survival, he doesn't, mentions of amnesia, mentions of illness, radiation poisoning, they're brothers your honour, tommy is bad with people, wilbur thinks he likes to be alone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:35:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945863</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake6656/pseuds/blake6656</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The story of a lonely man and an even lonelier boy.”</p><p> </p><p>Or, a Tommy too young to understand the consequence of radiation, and a Wilbur who preferred to be alone...until he didn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>427</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the awakening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tommy and Wilbur awake alone, unsure of who they are or where they are.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b><em>Tommy</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The burning was all Tommy had ever known.</p><p>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
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</p><p>Since the day he had opened his eyes in this godforsaken place, mouth dry from the arid terrain and eyebrows furrowed against the blazing sun, he had felt it. Tommy had awoken not knowing who or where he was, left with nothing but the clothes on his back and a red handkerchief tied around his neck. The burning had started then. It was a slow pain, the type that bubbled, ached dully somewhere deep inside. He remembered tears leaking from disoriented eyes as he’d sat upright, mind buzzing with heat and confusion. </p><p>
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</p><p>Those first few moments had been the worst.</p><p>
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</p><p>He’d been terrified at first. Terrified of the unknown, terrified of the roar of the waves in the near distance, terrified of anything and everything. But somewhere in that frail mind of his, he knew he had to power on. He wasn’t that weak. <em>Tommy</em> was not that weak.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>And that was when he knew his name.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>He didn’t know how he knew, and he didn’t know why that was the first thing he remembered, but the name ‘Tommy’ had a pretty nice ring to it, he’d decided. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>It had been a few years since then.</p><p>
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</p><p>The current Tommy was taller, rougher, stronger than the boy that had awoken on the beach all those years ago. The island once so unfamiliar to him had become home. He sat in the treetops now, feet perched on a sturdy branch, looking over the foliage.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Home, huh?” he muttered incredulously. And then he launched his spear.</p><p>
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</p><p>The rod flew through the air, a loud thud promptly following it. Tommy hopped down the tree, excitement stretching his face into a smile. He had hunted every day since he became accustomed to life in the wild, but that didn’t dim the pride he felt every time his weapon hit bullseye. Or, in this case, boar’s eye.</p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy admired his handiwork for a moment, before hauling the carcass over his shoulder briskly. The years of routine made this feat easier, but not completely without strain, and the boy still found his muscles aching by the time he reached his shack. Well, he calls it a shack. But really, Tommy had always been a terrible builder, and his “shack” was actually just a few planks of wood that he had found washed upon the shore, haphazardly assembled into a small room of sorts.</p><p>
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</p><p>He sighed. His eyes grew heavy, but he couldn’t afford the luxury of sleep just yet. The food needed to be prepared. Tommy grimaced, slamming the boar onto the small makeshift table he had created from odd pieces of rubble. This had always been his least favourite job, ever since he was still a boy, and the red crimson of the animal’s blood stained his nailbeds for days after he took his first life.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>But still, dinner wouldn’t cook itself. And so, raising a sharpened flint dagger, he plunged it through the boar’s hide, barely swallowing the bile in his throat as blood sprayed his clothes.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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</p><p>Sometimes he thought he wasn’t cut out for this life.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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</p><p>Then he remembered he didn’t have a choice.</p><p>
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</p><p>The meal had been hefty and Tommy was pleasantly full. It was on nights like these when the solitude of the wilderness didn’t seem so bad, when he was kept company by the warmth of his makeshift fire and the tune of his beat-up guitar.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>He had found the instrument in early spring of last year, abandoned on the shore, as he did many of his items. He had no recollection of ever learning to play the guitar - not that he recalled much of anything, really. But he felt an urge bubbling in his chest every time he glanced at the wooden instrument, and whether it was the burning causing it or not, he knew he wanted it.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Now, he couldn’t survive without it. Each night before he slept, he would sit, guitar in hand, strumming the same nostalgic melody over and over. He knew no other songs, but somehow he didn’t mind the calming tune of the song he miraculously knew how to play. He’d lost count of the times he’d strummed until his fingers bled; it was worth it, though, for the smile the notes brought to his face as he drifted off to sleep.</p><p>
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</p><p>This night was no different, and Tommy closed his eyes against the setting sun, letting the melody lull him into slumber.</p><p>
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</p><p>
  <b> <em>Wilbur</em> </b>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur had always preferred to be alone.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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</p><p>Even after waking up on the island, he hadn’t worried. He hadn’t panicked. He had simply felt numb. He remembered slowly standing from the ground, assessing his surroundings carefully. He couldn’t recall a thing about anything before opening his eyes.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>That was definitely a problem, he concluded.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He had awoken surrounded by dense deciduous trees, rocks pressed into his back and air around him humid.<em> Probably a tropical forest, </em> he had speculated, not entirely sure how the knowledge had come to him, but trusting it nonetheless. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The next thing he had done was check his person for any belongings, anything that could give an indicator of where, or even who, he was. He patted his figure, finding nothing but a guitar pick in one pocket of his tattered trench coat and a worn brown beanie in the other. He inspected the piece of clothing carefully, folding back the hem and laying his eyes on a barely legible scribble of writing.</p><p> </p><p>“Property of Wilbur Soot,” the tag in the hat read. Wilbur had held the piece at an arm's length, hesitant to believe he had found his name so easily, but eventually succumbing to the comfort of identity, and placing the hat upon his head.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>To this day, he still hadn’t stopped wearing it.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>The island was large, he had realised over the years. Soon after his first days, Wilbur had begun to explore the land, first heading North, where the trees grew sparse and the land grew flat. He was certain he wasn’t the only person this had happened to, and he was determined to find the others. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>But the ‘others’ weren’t so eager. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>The people of the North had clearly been there far longer than he had. They were aggressive, fortified: they had claimed their domain, and shot at anyone who dared to step foot on their soil. As much as Wilbur would’ve liked to push the poor newcomer act, these people were far too hardened by the harsh wilderness to fall prey to such a simple scheme.</p><p>
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</p><p>And so, begrudgingly, he headed South.</p><p>
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</p><p>Here, the land was rough, abundant with deadly inclines and even deadlier declines. The further up the mountainous region he ventured, the more snow began to fall from the sky, taunting him with the bite of cold and no refuge.</p><p>
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</p><p>If he had thought the journey North had been long, the journey South made it seem like child’s play. It took the best part of a year to scale the rocky death-trap of the Southern mountains. By the time he reached the peak, his ankles had scarred from the constant stumbling and his bones had grown weary of the cold.</p><p>
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</p><p>The house that awaited him made everything worth it, though.</p><p>
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</p><p>A singular structure amongst an untouched blanket of white, the house was abandoned, but the hearth still worked and the bed was comfortable. Wilbur had never sought for comfort, but he had to admit; having a place to rest his head felt pretty nice.</p><p> </p><p>He spent most of his days there. The chests were full of interesting items, and the books that lay discarded in a pile kept him up late into the nights, intriguing in their ways of describing a world so unfamiliar to him. He felt content in his own company, and content was good - content was <em> safe </em>.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>He had never felt an urge to change that.</p><p>
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</p><p>Until one day, the mist around the mountain cleared miraculously at the brink of dawn, and something of a vibrant red caught his eye in the distance. It was large, noticeable even with the distortion of the distance, and spherical in shape. He had watched it appear through the fog from the window next to the bed, book in hand and brows raised in curiosity. And yet, even from the comfort of the throw around his shoulders, he found himself wanting, <em> needing </em>, to pursue it. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>He was packed and gone by the time noon had rolled around.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>The Dome, he had decided to call it, was East. He could see the dull grey of the ocean somewhere past the structure, so he assumed it was near the coast, or a reasonable distance from it at least. For the first time since he had awoken, Wilbur felt something close to excitement bubble in his chest. Despite the painful journey, he found himself glad he had travelled South. <em> Maybe it was fate, </em> he mused. <em> Yeah, he’d call it that </em>.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>It became apparent the further he travelled East that the land was dangerous. Not the people, not the animals, but the land itself reeked of radiation, chemicals practically oozing from any crack and crevice it could. It was bearable, at first, but soon enough, he found that his eyes had begun to water and his skin had begun to burn. </p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” he had muttered one morning, after accidentally placing a palm down onto the rocks as he crouched, feeling the rock sizzle as it eroded his skin. This was when he delved into his supplies, rummaging in the bag he’d packed for any clothing he could find. He opted for an oversized yellow sweater, made of thick cotton, and used his previous shirt to wrap around his face as a makeshift face-mask. He shifted a pair of gloves he had picked up absent-mindedly while at the house onto his hands, never more thankful for his decisions than in that moment.</p><p> </p><p>The journey East was long and tough. Despite the odd appearance of forest and foliage, the air stayed dry, and Wilbur often found himself spluttering upon inhale. The only thing that spurred him onwards was the increasingly short distance he had until he reached The Dome. But then, water appeared.</p><p> </p><p>At some point, he had veered off course, he realised in slight dismay. Possibly due to the constant stumbling, a combination of the heavy bag he carried on one shoulder and the fumes that had gone to his head, he had veered to a very sharp right without realising. Now, he stood facing the shore. </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t too far gone: The Dome was still in sight, just slightly farther than it had been yesterday. He looked down the large expanse of sand, taking in the land. This was a nice area, he noted. The air here was clearer, still radiated but less so than before. There were trees, and sand, and <em> water </em>.</p><p> </p><p>The waves lapped calmly, reflecting the purple and orange hues of the setting sun. There wasn’t much point in walking farther than this, he reasoned, but in truth he just wanted to rest his weary legs.</p><p> </p><p>He ducked under protruding branches, making his way down the expanse on the small rocky strip between forest and sand, searching for a place that he could rest comfortably for the night. The fading sunlight filtered through the trees, casting an array of golden patterns onto the ground before him. The chittering of the birds in their nests sounded almost melodic, a sweet tune that--</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Wait.</p><p>
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</p><p>That was no bird - that was the faint strum of a guitar, somewhere close. Wilbur froze. A guitar had to come with the person playing it, and he hadn’t seen another soul since his run-in with the barbarians of the North. He inched towards the source of the tune slowly, praying his heavy limbs did not betray him and alert whoever it may be of his presence.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes wandered, almost missing it at first. Then he saw it. A small, wooden shack, barely tall enough to stand straight within, and barely wide enough for a bed, if that. No matter who resided there, it seemed unthreatening.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” Wilbur chanced. The guitar playing stopped. He flinched, hearing a crash and what sounded like a sharp inhale as someone stumbled and fell. A boy, no older than 16, appeared in the doorway. Wilbur gasped.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>“He...llo?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tommy and Wilbur's paths have finally crossed, but is trust that easily earned?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tommy had never seen another person.</p><p>
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</p><p>For his whole life, the burning had been his only friend, his <em> closest </em>friend. Now, a man stood by the door of his home, and he had no clue how to react. </p><p>
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</p><p>“He...llo?” Tommy croaked, his voice unaccustomed to speaking in general, nevermind to another human being. The man blanched. He didn’t appear threatening, with his lopsided stance and oversized sweater. But Tommy knew that appearances could be deceiving. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Who...Who are you?” he spoke again, slightly clearer this time, but a wobble still present. The man took a cautionary step forward.</p><p>
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</p><p>“My name is Wilbur. Who are <em> you </em>?” he questioned. The man’s - Wilbur’s - voice was deep, commanding, so unlike his own.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Name’s Tommy, innit,” he spoke to the ground, averting eye contact.</p><p> </p><p>“Tommy Innit?” Wilbur asked incredulously. Tommy scoffed, shoulders hunching.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>“Of course not, dickhead, that’s such a stupid fuckin’ name,” he muttered. Wilbur, surprised by the harsh words that somehow held no real malice, let out a startled laugh. Tommy scrunched up his nose.</p><p>
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</p><p>“A-are you laughing at me, b-bitch?” Tommy retorted. He had no clue where this confidence was coming from: it felt natural to him, almost, like a primal urge. He stepped back apprehensively, retreating behind the door.</p><p>
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</p><p>“No, no, I’m not laughing at you…” Wilbur remedied, still biting back a smile, but noticing the boy’s behaviour becoming more skittish. “I was just looking for a place to stay for the night, okay?”</p><p>
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</p><p>At this, Wilbur removed the shirt from his face. Tommy took in his appearance, eyes squinted. He seemed worn, haggard; there were deep circles beneath his tired brown eyes and his lips were chapped, as though he hadn’t had a drop of water in days. This man didn’t look dangerous. He didn’t <em> feel </em> dangerous. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Just for tonight. I’ll be gone by morning,” he pleaded, raising his hands into the air in a surrender of sorts. Tommy gnawed on his lip. He’d never had to make decisions like this before. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, before sighing.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Fine. But I want to see everything in that bag, and if you steal any of my shit you’re <em> dead, </em>” he threatened, turning around and walking back into his shack. Wilbur took this as a cue to follow him inside, almost having to duck to prevent his head scraping the roof. The boy was pretty tall, but not quite as tall as him, he noticed idly. </p><p>
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</p><p>“So, how long have you been here for?” He attempted smalltalk. Tommy gave him a side-eyed glare, and held out a hand. Wilbur cocked his head in confusion.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Bag.”</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur shifted uncomfortably, handing the bag over to the boy. Tommy quickly emptied its contents onto the table. His eyes brightened at the sight of new clothes - it was obvious, when looking at him, that he had worn the same red-and-white t-shirt since he’d awoken, and he was sorely due for a change. </p><p> </p><p>“Where did you find these?” he inquired, excitement present in his tone as he sifted through the pile. He seemed to be lingering on a maroon tank top and a pair of cargo pants.</p><p>
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</p><p>“A house, up South,” Wilbur explained. Tommy blinked. It had never occurred to him that other people would reside in this place, much less that he should ever explore. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Why’d you leave?” he questioned again. Wilbur had to refrain from laughing once more at the boy’s curiosity - it was beginning to feel more like an interrogation, but the fact that he knew the boy had no such intentions somehow made the moment ironically hilarious.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Hm, it’s a bit of a long story. You got the time?” Wilbur had been expecting the boy to refuse immediately; after all, the sun was long past setting by now, and the weariness was beginning to catch up to him. But instead, he furrowed his brows in brief consideration, before agreeing.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve got the time. I hope you’re not a shit storyteller,” Tommy jested pointedly, picking up the clothes that Wilbur noticed he’d been looking at earlier. “But first, I’m gonna change. Don’t you dare leave this fuckin’ room.”</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur sighed as he looked around the shack that was practically one gust away from collapse.</p><p>
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</p><p>He was beginning to regret ever asking Tommy for help.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I’m ready,” Tommy urged, curled up in the corner of the room under a blanket of animal hide. A small fire crackled in the centre of the room, casting a dim yellow light over the ground. Wilbur laid back, hands behind his head, watching as a firefly flitted around the ceiling.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I woke up here a few years back,” he spoke slowly, glancing over at the younger boy who seemed to nod in intent agreement, his eyes practically ablaze with sentiment of <em> Me too! That happened to me too! </em></p><p>
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</p><p>“I couldn’t remember anything, and I had nothing but a beanie and a guitar pick. I tried to go North at first, but the people weren’t too welcoming - and by that, I mean a gun to the head,” Wilbur chuckled, unable to stop the creeping of anxiety in his mind at the memory. Tommy gaped from his spot in the corner.</p><p>
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</p><p>“After that, I ended up turning right back around and going South. It’s snowy there, and god, did the mountains kick my ass. There was a house there too, at the very peak of the climb. It was so <em> comfortable </em> and <em> warm </em>,” he reminisced. He heard Tommy shift closer, eager to hear more. A smile broke across his face.</p><p>
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</p><p>“But then, one morning, this <em> thing </em> appeared in the distance, and it just <em> called </em> to me. It was magical, Tommy,” Wilbur breathed.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What thing?” gasped an awe-struck Tommy. His mind was ablaze right now; all of his life, he’d felt condemned to the small strip of land he’d awoken on. He’d never trusted himself to venture further than the rocky shore and the sparse foliage. Wilbur let out a shaky exhale.</p><p>
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</p><p>“<em> The Dome </em>, Tommy.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“...What the fuck is <em> The Dome </em>?” </p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, silence set heavily in the air around them. Then, a faint rustling as Wilbur sat upright, turning his frame to look Tommy in the eyes.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I know it sounds ridiculous. But I promise you, hand on heart, that if you saw it the way I did, you’d feel exactly the same,” he preached, voice growing louder, brows furrowing as he searched the younger boy’s face for any telltale sign of emotion. <em> Confusion, apprehension, consideration, confusion once more - he was clearly overwhelmed.  </em></p><p>
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</p><p>“That’s enough for tonight, I think,” Wilbur sighed. He silently cursed the ignorance of his own actions. It was inevitable that Tommy, a boy so much younger than himself, would struggle to grasp what he was attempting to convey. He was about to turn over when a voice stopped him.</p><p>
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</p><p>“For what it’s worth, Wilbur,” Tommy spoke, softer than he’d heard him all day. “The story wasn’t as shit as I thought it’d be.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Got it. Thanks,” Wilbur cleared his throat into the silence. This time, he didn’t fight the grin that crept onto his face as he lay his head against the ground, and he fell into a pleasant slumber amidst the haze of the humid summer night - the most comfortable he’d had in weeks.</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p>To say that Wilbur had opened his eyes as calmly as he’d closed them would be a blatant lie.</p><p>
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</p><p>“<em>Fuck, shit, piss, </em> <b> <em>shit</em> </b> <em> , if I had a knife right now, I swear,” </em> a string of curses carried through the brisk morning air, startling Wilbur into consciousness. He quickly jumped to his feet, stumbling as he did so, sending him sprawling across the ground. He winced. <em> That’d leave a bruise </em>, he grumbled internally, standing straight back up and rushing from the shack.</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur had been expecting danger. An attack, maybe, human or animal - he’d had a fair few run-ins with situations of the sort, and his paranoia always got the best of him in moments like these. But there, entangled with a tree branch, stood a very pissed Tommy, old shirt in hand.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What in the actual fuck are you doing?” Wilbur groaned, rubbing a hand over his face exasperatedly. Tommy shook his limbs forcefully, trying to escape the branches that were now latched onto his clothes. He failed.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Well, I woke up early, because you slept <em> really fuckin’ long </em>, dude. I was going through my shit and wanted to wash my old t-shirt because of that sentimentality bullshit or whatever, so I washed it in the sea and was try’na hang it up to dry, but--”</p><p>
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</p><p>“How did any of that lead to a physical altercation with a <em> fucking tree </em>?” Wilbur exclaimed, voice almost echoing in the vast terrain. Tommy flinched slightly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Hey! It hit me first,” he mumbled sheepishly. Wilbur sighed again, something he realised he was doing often recently. On closer inspection, the boy had been scratched in multiple places from the ragged bark, and his hands were red raw from the baultic water of the ocean. The anger quickly subsided. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Stay still,” Wilbur approached him slowly, reaching out as he began to untangle the tree’s tendrils from the cloth adorned on his body. It took a few painstaking minutes before the boy was detached fully. At this, Tommy grunted a quick thank you, storming past him and back into the shack, shivering from the cold. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Where’s my bag?” Wilbur called after him, following his lead but with less aggression, abandoned sleep making his movements now sluggish. The boy pointed to the table, where his bag lay, neatly packed already. <em> He was that eager to see him gone, huh? </em></p><p>
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</p><p>He grabbed it, slinging it over one shoulder, and clearing his throat briefly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Then, I guess I’ll be off. Thanks for your hospitality,” Wilbur deadpanned, turning to set off on his journey, when a hand grabbed his wrist. He turned, confused. Tommy was standing there, expression blank, like he was expecting something. Whatever that thing was, Wilbur had no clue. </p><p>
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</p><p>“I’m coming with you,” Tommy stated matter-of-factly. His blue eyes widened as he stared up to the older man, pleading with a sense of smugness that he knew he couldn’t refuse. </p><p>
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</p><p>“What do you mean <em> you’re coming with me </em>?” </p><p>
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</p><p>“I mean exactly what I said. I wanna see The Dome ‘n shit,” he hummed, reserved excitement barely noticeable in his voice, but there nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>Wilbur looked at the boy. They’d known one another for barely a day at this point, and he found himself still wary; but something about the messy grin and messier hair of the adolescent before him made him feel an odd sort of comfort. So badly did he want to refuse, to complete the journey as he’d started it - alone. Then, he glanced at the room, at the rotting walls, at the guitar on the boy’s back, ready to leave this horrid place. And he couldn’t refuse. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Fine, but we leave <em> now </em>. Are you packed?” Wilbur asked the question purely out of courtesy. He could see that the boy was obviously prepared, his belongings (well, what little of them there were), stuffed into a small sack, and his guitar hung around his torso. Tommy nodded eagerly, looking more akin to a puppy than a boy.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Then, what are we waiting for?” the man sighed in defeat, a fond smile creeping onto his face.</p><p>
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</p><p>Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, having a companion.</p><p>
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</p><p>Maybe, just maybe, Tommy would be good for him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. the conflict</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tommy and Wilbur encounter an enemy, and the hardest choices are the ones that end up needing to be made the fastest.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Wilbur didn’t quite know when Tommy began to get on his nerves.</p><p>
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</p><p>Maybe it was the incessant talking. Ever since the two had set off, Tommy had talked constantly, barely with room for breath. It seemed he wanted to utilise the voice he’d never spoken before; now that he'd had a taste of life without silence, he didn't want to stop for fear of the world once again turning quiet.</p><p>
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</p><p>But Wilbur preferred silence. He liked how it calmed, how it eased his mind. The boy's voice, albeit at the same volume it usually was, pierced the silence harshly, a loud bleating that blared painfully in the man’s ears. At present, he was rambling about the trees, and how their usually mundane leaves looked prettier in the colder months.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Woah! Those trees are all <em> orange n shit! </em> Those freakishly tall ones on the beach never did this shit, it’s so cool--”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Do they usually do this? Am I just the ignorant fucker late to the knowledge that trees can <em> change their fucking colour? </em> They’re like those funny little lizards--”</p><p>
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</p><p>“<em>Tommy.”</em></p><p>
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</p><p>“Hey, hey, Wilbur, watch me! I’m gonna climb this tree and get a leaf of each colour, I think the ones at the top might be pretty hard to grab, but they’re the prettiest ones, so--”</p><p>
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</p><p>“<b><em>Tommy, for god’s sake, do you ever fucking shut up?!</em></b>” Wilbur exploded. He hadn’t meant to shout, to lose his temper, but he had. He watched as the young boy’s face dropped instantly, his shoulders hunching as he shoved his hands into his pockets. A scowl crossed his face, like he was about to retaliate, before he sighed.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yeah. Sorry,” he settled upon. Guilt bubbled briefly in Wilbur’s stomach, but the feeling was quickly forgotten as he revelled in the newfound silence. The pair continued to walk through the forest, ducking under branches and hopping over stray roots much as they had before, only this time not a word was uttered. They only slowed a few hours into the journey.</p><p>
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</p><p>“We’re getting closer. Be extra careful, we don’t know who could be here,” Wilbur cautioned beneath his breath, voice urgent. They were entering marked territory now, visible by a rickety chain fence that segregated overgrown green and rocky brown. Nature and human life, one visibly in worse condition than the other.</p><p>
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</p><p>Had Tommy been in a better mood, perhaps he would’ve listened to Wilbur. After all, the older man seemed experienced, and knew a great deal more than him. But he’d just <em> yelled </em> at him. And over the lump in his throat, over the tears threatening to spill, he felt the urge to upset Wilbur just as he’d upset him. It was crying or chaos; and Tommy knew exactly which he preferred.</p><p>
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</p><p>So, as the two slunk their way through a gash in the fence, the boy made sure to make as much noise as possible. First, it was the smaller things. He’d trip, blaming it on his tired legs, only after he’d exclaimed at the top of his lungs to inform Wilbur that he was, in fact, falling. He’d drop his bag, stumble over his boots, anything to make unwarranted noise. </p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur ignored him. He could feel the irritation nagging the back of his mind, yet his sole goal was the rusted leg of The Dome he could now see in the distance between the trees. Even he had become clumsy, eyes alight with avidity as he stumbled ever closer towards his destination of months on end. It was so, <em> so </em> close. Close enough that he could almost <em> feel </em> it. He scrambled and he fell, the red spherical paradise becoming closer, and nearer, almost in his touch--</p><p>
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</p><p>Then, the barrel of a gun.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Put your shit on the ground,” a gruff voice spoke. Wilbur paled almost instantly, finding himself wanting to turn and assure that the boy was fine, but feeling the cool metal of the firearm against his forehead proved to be a far greater motivator than the wellbeing of the child he’d only just met. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Okay, okay,” he muttered past trembling lips, shifting his bag to the ground as he raised his hands to emphasise there was nothing within them. </p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy was no better off. He had seen the men before Wilbur had, but hadn’t registered in his almost infantile rage that they were any cause of concern, and before he knew it, he too had a gun squarely between his eyes. </p><p>
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</p><p>They appeared to be scavengers. Decked in hazmat suits, they clearly adorned mostly stolen gear, evident from the poorly-tailored fit of the clothing items. He fought the urge to spit out the bile that had collected in the back of his throat.</p><p>
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</p><p>“We haven’t got all day, boy,” the second of the men spoke. His voice was rougher than the other’s, angrier almost. Tommy cursed his luck as he felt the metal nudge further into his skin. <em> Of course he’d get the ruthless bandit, why wouldn’t he? </em></p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy complied, despite the pride within him that was desperately trying to persuade him otherwise. He dropped his satchel, hearing it thud gently on the ground. The man quickly kicked it behind him. The boy patted his body for any other belongings, coming up empty, and so looked toward the man for approval.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Don’t piss me about, boy. I mean <em> all </em> of your shit,” he growled lowly. Tommy realised, with a start, that he meant the guitar loosely strung around his frame. And if there was one thing he wasn’t giving up, it was his guitar.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Fuck you,” Tommy finally spat at the man’s feet. The man let out a humourless chuckle, before slamming the gun into the side of the boy’s head. Tommy saw stars for a moment, before a hot rage replaced them with blazing red.</p><p>
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</p><p>“<em>Stop fucking resisting,</em>” the man seethed, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and yanking him closer. Tommy blinked through the blood now dripping into his eye, contemplating. Then he made a decision. He’d never been smart, sure, but he knew how to escape an angered boar; and these men seemed to be in their exact likeness.  </p><p>
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</p><p>So, mustering all the strength he could, he catapulted forwards, connecting his head with the man’s. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Wilbur, run!” Tommy yelled, knowing that the man who held him had most likely averted his concentration now, allowing him a chance to escape. He barely had time to check if it had worked before a fist connected with his face. </p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy cursed beneath his breath, inhaling sharply as he crashed into the rocky ground. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t thought this far along. But while the men had their strength and brute force, he had his agility, the small, lanky frame that came with his youth. He scrambled to his feet, scarcely avoiding another swing. </p><p>
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</p><p>His bare arms were screaming in pain. The Burning was back, he noticed grimly, presenting in an intricate web of startling red over his porcelain skin. He didn’t have time to worry about that, though. Narrowly through the trees he could see the bright yellow of Wilbur’s sweater - he had gotten away. Now he only had one thing to worry about; escaping himself. </p><p>
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</p><p>The two men were obviously not trained to fight, their steps clumsy as they lunged for the boy at the same time. Tommy rolled, limbs flailing. He, too, wasn’t trained, but knew enough about combat to land his foot directly into the calf of the gruffer man, sending him tumbling to the floor. In doing so, he dropped the gun he had been holding, the chamber opening with a faint<em> click</em>. </p><p>
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</p><p>Empty.</p><p>
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</p><p><em> The guns had been fucking empty, </em> Tommy realised, halfway between relief and humiliation. He used this opportunity, while the man was down, to launch himself out of the clearing and into the bushes, blindly hoping he was following the same direction as Wilbur. Then he ran. </p><p>
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</p><p>He was nimble, and caught up to Wilbur in a few mere minutes. He paid no heed to the brambles nicking him, nor the searing pain throughout his whole body. All that mattered in that moment was that he put as much distance between them and the men as possible.</p><p> </p><p>It was a while before they finally stopped to rest.</p><p>
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</p><p>They had run in frantic silence, not speaking a word to one another for sheer fear that it may slow them. It was only when Tommy began to sway precariously did his strides become shorter, and he decided that he could no longer continue to run. </p><p> </p><p>Wilbur hadn’t quite noticed at first. He thought he’d just quickened, but when the boy dropped from his side, he turned abruptly. Tommy was slumped against a tree, head leaned back as he panted. Wilbur had to refrain from gasping.</p><p>
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</p><p>A large gash splayed across his forehead, oozing crimson in a stark trail down the left side of his face. His jaw was a mottled mess of purple and blue, and his lip had practically doubled in size, abrasion clear by the split within it. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, what the fuck did you do?” Wilbur urged, voice solemn. Tommy exhaled; it sounded like he was trying to laugh, but the widening of his smile only sent a lash of pain into his cheek, and he instead bit back a sob.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I helped you escape, didn’t I, dickhead?” he muttered. He allowed his eyes to fall closed as he lay his head back against the trunk, expecting to be reprimanded. After all, it was his reckless actions that had gotten them caught in the first place - why wouldn’t he be reprimanded?</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, I’m not mad at you,” the man sighed, sliding to the ground on Tommy’s left, head against the tree in similar fashion. <em> It was almost as if Wilbur had read his mind,</em> the boy pondered, finding the thought only mildly humorous. For a few moments, the land fell silent, spare the chittering of birds and the faint breeze in the trees.</p><p>
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</p><p>Then,</p><p>
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</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur looked over his shoulder; the boy still had his eyes closed, but he was gnawing on his lip, and his brows were furrowed deeply.</p><p> </p><p>“Why am I not mad at you?” he ventured. The boy nodded, a faint <em> mhm </em> the only audible sign of agreement.</p><p>
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</p><p>“It was nobody’s fault that we got caught. Let’s be honest, we were both being pretty fuckin’ reckless. We were just in the wrong place, at the wrong time. If anything, I should be thanking you. We’d have been completely screwed had you not stepped in there. So...Thank you, Tommy,” Wilbur had never been one for emotional speeches. Even he was surprised at the words he had spoken, so alien to his nature. What surprised him all the more, though, was the warmth within him as he watched the boy smile to himself as he spoke them. </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>“You’re welcome, Wilbur,” Tommy beamed. He tried his hardest to keep his voice cool, collected. But after years of having nobody to praise him but his own warped thoughts, nothing could’ve prepared him for the rush of emotion he would feel at the older man’s kind words. He didn’t care that his lip stung or that his face ached anymore; smiling seemed worth the pain. </p><p>
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</p><p>They passed the next few hours dozing in and out of consciousness as the sun set, humidity setting in amongst the dense trees. It was nearing dusk when Wilbur had a thought.</p><p>
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</p><p>“...Anyway, where’d you learn to fight like that?” he murmured, voice soft in the hushed evening terrain. Tommy snorted.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I used to hunt boars, and the only way to escape a pissed boar is to distract it. I figured if one of us was the distraction, at least the other would be able to run,” he admitted. Wilbur let out a bark of laughter, causing a nearby bird to flock from its place on the tree it had been nesting in.</p><p>
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</p><p>“So you decided to <em> headbutt </em> him?” he teased, his fits of laughter only becoming more frequent. The adrenaline of the chase was only just catching up to the two, making them giddy, <em> happy </em> - but it wasn’t a feeling that either of them minded.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What do you suggest I should've done, ey, if you’re so smart?” Tommy retorted, child-like giggle in the back of his throat, as he tried to keep up his cocky exterior. Wilbur glanced playfully at him, pretending to think.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Anything that didn’t involve you getting hurt, dumbass,” he rolled his eyes - while the comment itself was merely a quip, it held a certain level of truth. The two were huddled at the base of the tree, sheltered by the shadow of night, yet even in the dark, Wilbur could see the wounds upon the boy’s face. </p><p>
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</p><p>“That <em> did </em> really fuckin’ hurt!” Tommy exclaimed, like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Left a hell of a bruise too - my forehead’s all lumpy n’ shit.”</p><p>
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</p><p>The two chuckled some more, the lull of the night settling around them as the adrenaline rush finally began to calm.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tomorrow, Tommy. We’ll find some medical supplies and get you patched up, okay?” Wilbur assured, eyes dancing from star to star as he looked up to the endless sea of deep azure. There was no response.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy?” he tried again, peering around the trunk as he had before. His pulse quickened with endless possibilities - he’d never forgive himself had something happened to the child while he was there, and fully abled.</p><p>
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</p><p>Alas, the boy was merely asleep, chest rising and falling ever-so-slightly as he breathed. Wilbur felt an overwhelming sense of relief, a sense that seemed to remove all tension within his body, and suddenly, he felt positively enervated. <em> Maybe Tommy had the right idea,</em> he had grinned to himself, laying down amongst the leaves.</p><p>
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</p><p>And so, for the second night in a row, Wilbur Soot fell asleep with a smile upon his face, and a certain young blond by his side.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. the journey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wilbur and Tommy finally breach The Dome, and meet an unexpected guest along the way.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
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</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tommy awoke significantly warmer than he had been the previous night.</p><p>
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</p><p>Light filtered through the canopy of trees in a strange array of patterns, stirring the boy from his slumber as they danced softly upon his closed eyelids. He came to slowly, feeling such a general sense of comfort that he felt no need to make haste.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Guess it’s my turn to say you slept <em> really fuckin’ long,</em>” a rich voice called to him. Tommy rubbed his tired eyes, sitting upright.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, dickhead,” he grumbled, no real malice in his tone. Wilbur let out a quiet chuckle - the dynamic between the two of them was still strange to him, but after yesterday’s implications, he decided to stop fighting whatever came naturally. It wasn’t fair to either of them, he’d thought. </p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy shifted, feeling a weight around him, and attributing this fact to the familiar-looking trench coat draped across his body. He stared at it, wide-eyed. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Did you… give me your coat?” he faltered, somewhere between wanting to laugh at the sheer cheesiness of the gesture, and wanting to shed a tear for the emotions it made him feel. Wilbur flushed in embarrassment.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You looked cold,” he responded flippantly, quickly turning his back and pretending to busy himself with something, that in truth, was nothing. Tommy chose not to press it any further. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Where are we going today then, big man?” he queried after a pregnant pause. The drowsiness was now abandoning him, and he felt rejuvenated, if not for the pain he suddenly noticed was coursing throughout his whole body.</p><p>
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</p><p>“We’re gonna try and infiltrate The Dome again,” Wilbur bit through a grimace, knowing Tommy would probably oppose the idea. His speculations were proven true when the colour drained from the boy’s face, mouth agape.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You can’t be serious. What the fuck, Wilbur? What if we run into those bastards again?” Tommy objected, betrayal twisting his features into an unpleasant frown. The man shuddered at the mere thought, before steeling himself, and turning to face him.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, I know it’s risky. But look at yourself, man. You’re a fucking mess. Without some sort of medkit, you’re not gonna get much better, either,” Wilbur sighed, spinning to look him in the eye. The blonde recoiled, suspicion darkening his once-blue eyes.</p><p>
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</p><p>“So you’re saying the only reason we’re going back is because I’m hurt?” he enunciated, scepticism obvious as he spoke. Wilbur nodded.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Well, that and the fact we lost all our shit and now have no food, or anything else for that matter,” he elaborated bitterly. Tommy recalled the satchels on the ground as he had fled, cursing his former self for neglecting to pick them up before he ran. And as much as he hated to admit it, Wilbur was right. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Fine. Lead the way, o’ great Messiah of The Dome!” Tommy exclaimed theatrically, pulling himself up from the ground and tossing the coat to Wilbur, dusting off his tattered cargo pants. The older man rolled his eyes, catching it with ease.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Funny,” he deadpanned, setting off. Tommy seized this opportunity to stick a middle finger to him while he wasn’t looking. <em> That’ll show him, </em> he thought smugly, falling into line beside Wilbur as they walked.</p><p>
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</p><p>“By the way, Wilbur,” Tommy pondered aloud. The man hummed faintly in response, swatting a large fly out of his face absent-mindedly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You called me ugly earlier, huh?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“I fucking <em> what?!</em>” Wilbur practically choked on the words, stopping dead in his tracks. Of course, he hadn’t always been the kindest man, but he was sure he’d recall saying something of that extent, especially to the boy before him. Tomy guffawed - he felt an odd sense of pride to have reduced him to this state, shocked, panicked even.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You said, and I quote, ‘You’re a fucking mess’. If you think so poorly of me, just tell me straight up next time,” the boy chided, mock hurt turning his words sickly sweet as he ignored the sting of his lip that had just split once again. Wilbur heaved a sigh of relief, internally glad that the boy hadn’t been serious.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You know, I didn’t mean it that way. But in hindsight, you’re totally right. I suppose you are pretty fuckin’ ugly,” he grinned slyly, setting into a stride once again. Tommy struggled to keep up.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Take that back right now. I won’t hesitate to stab you, bitch,” he threatened, grabbing a stray stick from the ground and attempting to jab him with it. Unfortunately, his shorter legs made it difficult to catch up with the man, and his threats fell short - metaphorically and literally.</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur could only laugh.</p><p>
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</p><p>This was what had gone awry yesterday, he reckoned - the two, so unfamiliar to one another, had rejected any and all form of connection on the basis that they simply hadn’t experienced it before. But rejection of what was meant to be has a funny way of forcing its hand.</p><p>
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</p><p>And this?</p><p>
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</p><p>This was meant to be.</p><p>
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</p><p>Whether the two of them knew it just yet or not.</p><p>
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</p><p>Breaching The Dome had been far easier this time. Their strategy was practically flawless; enter through the opposite side of the fence as the one they had last time, remain silent and stay steady. And as if by magic, they were in. </p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur couldn’t tell if the watering within his eyes was the emotion of his journey finally coming to an end, or the blatant fumes billowing into his irises from the chemical eroded ground. Tommy, however, didn’t see the appeal.</p><p>
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</p><p>“It’s just a chunk’a metal,” he declared, brows drawn together in confusion. Wilbur shook his head, staring up at the curvature of the structure, taking in its rusted surface with a kind of resentment dampened by unbridled fondness.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You don’t understand,” he whispered into the skies. The boy choked back a mocking laugh, catching it in his throat just before it could escape.<em> He could at least let him have The Dome, </em> he thought, recalling the coat he had been given the night before.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yeah, maybe I’ll learn,” Tommy gave a sideways grin in the man’s direction, to which he briefly reciprocated, before taking a tentative step forward.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Let’s begin,” he jested ominously. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Wilbur, we’re exploring a dome, not starting a fucking story,” the boy snorted, taking a matching stride.</p><p>
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</p><p>“<em>The </em> Dome, Tommy. <em> The Dome</em>. And maybe we <em> are </em> starting a story - the story of a beautiful sphere and a beautiful man, becoming one,” he proclaimed passionately, broad grin on his face as he stepped onto a ledge that wrapped firmly around the exterior of the structure. Tommy cringed in pure disgust as he copied the action.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Don’t ever say ‘<em>becoming one </em>’ to me again, you sickening motherfucker,” he gagged, ducking under a supportive beam as they traversed into the centre of the sphere. It was hollow inside, a cylindrical pillar at the very core. Wilbur opened his mouth, witty retort quick on the tongue, but was distracted before he had a chance to utter the words.</p><p>
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</p><p>There were crates here.</p><p>
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</p><p>Crates labelled food, crates labelled medicine - there were supplies. Wilbur nudged the boy towards them, before rushing to them himself, barely registering the scraping of his skin as he shoved a rigid wooden lid to the ground. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Holy shit,” he breathed. Inside, there lay stacks of canned meals, alongside a pile of folded hazmat suits, and an array of other provisions. From the very bottom of the crate, he could see the startling red of a first aid kit. He had to refrain from a shuddering sob of relief. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, are you seeing this?” he spluttered. The boy nodded, peering over the edge of the crate and glancing from item to item. He didn’t know what much of it was, but could clearly see that this was a revelation of sorts, and so he played along. </p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur first pulled out a large duffle bag, black in colour, from the left of the crate. He slung it nonchalantly over one shoulder - it was something Tommy noted he made a habit of. He then handed the boy the second of the two bags, of which he had to maneuver around the guitar that still clung to him. </p><p> </p><p>As if through wordless communication, the two began to pile supplies into whatever space they could make within the duffles, barely managing to zip them by the end. Wilbur kept the first aid kit at the top of his bag for ease of access; he’d use it later, to fix up Tommy, he thought. </p><p>
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</p><p>“We gonna grab anymore?” Tommy suggested, eyes wandering to the vast expanse of the pillar, noticing a varying amount of crates on each level of the ascension. Wilbur shook his head.</p><p>
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</p><p>“No, we have enough for now. The radiation is too strong here anyway - we best leave before we get ill,” he affirmed. If Tommy’s features crumpled in confusion at these words, he didn’t notice.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Let’s get going then, big man,” the boy retorted, swinging precariously from the ledge railing as he hopped back down the way they had entered. Wilbur had to hold in the worried fret he had been about to exclaim, imagery of the boy falling rife in his mind; he had to be tougher, though. He couldn’t afford to go soft just yet. And so he let him race ahead, Tommy’s youthful energy being something the man lacked. He stuck to a leisurely stroll, content with the loot and even more content with the fact that they had come out unscathed, this time at the very least. But then, an anxious voice:</p><p>
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</p><p>“Wilbur? I think you should come here,” Tommy called. The man could only see the porcelain shoulder of the boy peeking around the small rectangular door - nothing beyond. What he could see, however, was the boy’s hand inching towards the mechanical knife they had found amongst the supplies. Wilbur quickened his pace.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What is it?” he nagged, concern turning his demeanour frantic. Then he saw the issue; before them, merely a few feet away, was a boy on a horse, staring towards them with wide eyes. He looked to be Tommy’s age, easing Wilbur’s mind at least a little, but for the boy, it did nothing. An enemy was an enemy, as far as he was concerned.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Who are you?” Tommy commanded, a gritty growl in his throat. The boy, Wilbur noted, was an odd looking creature; half of his skin was an ashy grey, the other an unnatural white, and his eyes reminded the man of jewels. One green, one red, and uncharacteristically bright. </p><p>
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</p><p>“M-my name’s Ranboo,” the boy stuttered, cowering in on himself as those bright eyes flitted from Tommy to the knife, then back again. </p><p>
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</p><p>“<em>Ranboob</em>?!” Tommy exclaimed as though it was the most offensive thing he could have uttered. Wilbur watched in faint amusement as the boy tried to remedy the mistake, only to be ignored by the blond adolescent, who now had turned to him.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I say we kill him, Wilbur,” he spoke, voice serious, no hint of witticism present in the morbid suggestion. The boy looked horrified, even more so when Wilbur burst into a fit of laughter, having to clench the fabric of his bag to restrain the urge to drop to the floor. </p><p>
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</p><p>“I’d really rather you didn’t--”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, we’re not killing him, he doesn’t deserve to <em> die!”</em></p><p>
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</p><p>“What the fuck kind of a name is <em> Ranboob</em>? Of course he deserves to die.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Uh, my name isn’t Ranboob, it’s actually--”</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “Nobody asked you, boob boy</em>!” Tommy yelled, enforcing his words with a rather non-threatening jab in the boy’s direction with the knife he had pulled earlier. The boy flinched regardless. </p><p>
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</p><p>There was a beat of silence, before Wilbur sighed and turned to Ranboo, pitiful smile on his face.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I’m sorry about him, Ranboo,” Wilbur offered, prompting a muttered<em> Ranboob, more like, </em> from Tommy. “Where did you come from?”</p><p>
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</p><p>The boy looked apprehensive for a split moment, glancing left to right, as though listening to something, then nodded. He reached an ashy hand into the satchel at his side and pulled out a worn leather book, flicking it open briefly.</p><p> </p><p>“I...came from a place near uh... Fort Kickass, and my friend is Tubbo. He is a good friend because he does not hurt me. He is a good person,” Ranboo read monotonously from the pages. Tommy and Wilbur exchanged speculative glances, unsure what to make of the strange boy and his strange book. But if there was one thing they gathered from this interaction, it was that there were others; other humans, other people, nearby. And whether they were friend or foe was something they weren’t entirely sure they wanted to find out.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Why...did you have to read that from a book, ey?” Tommy queried, brow raised as he inched away ever-so-slowly. Wilbur clocked on almost immediately. The boy gave a sheepish laugh, tucking the leather-bound item away.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Oh, I hit my head when I first woke up here, so I have a hard time remembering things,” Ranboo trailed off, eyes clouding at the memory. Tommy, as inept to social cues as he was, grinned flippantly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, how interesting…” he spoke condescendingly, jerking his head repeatedly towards the fence. Wilbur sighed inwardly, unsure of whether to be disappointed in the sheer conspicuity of the boy’s actions, or amused at the clear oblivion of the other. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the awkward shifting of feet and the distant chirp of birds. Then, Tommy spoke.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Well, it was nice meeting ya’, boob boy!” were the wise words he chose, and without a beat for response, he turned on his heels and began to walk away. Wilbur followed him, glancing back just in time to catch the boy awkwardly raise his hand in a disoriented wave. </p><p>
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</p><p><em> “What a fuckin’ prick, Wilbur,” </em> Tommy seethed the second they were beyond Ranboo’s proximity. He scuffed his boot toe against the rigid ground, muttering profanity to himself in a small whisper  as though he could telepathically insult the boy they had just abandoned. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Hey, he wasn’t at all a threat, you know that,” Wilbur shook his head, tilting his chin upwards to peer at the boy through the branches; he was still in sight, just barely, from their elevated stance.</p><p>
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</p><p>“No, I <em> don't </em>know that, and neither do you,” Tommy lectured, picking up a stray pebble from the ground and juggling it between his two hands distraitly. He paused for a moment, before a light flared behind the boy’s distant eyes.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Hey, Wilbur, watch this.”</p><p>
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</p><p> Wilbur could see the cogs turning beneath his blank expression, the faint gleam of mischief in his crystalline eyes, and maybe had he cared enough, he would’ve done something about it. But instead, he merely watched as Tommy reared his hand, catapulting the stone through the air in the general direction of Ranboo, who was now sat frantically scribbling into his book. The boy snickered.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yeah, take that, boob boy!” Tommy yelled vindictively. What he hadn’t anticipated, though, was that the pebble would strike his horse. Horror drained his face a sickly white as he watched the beast crumple to the ground, taking the person sat upon it down as it went.  Neither of them moved for a good few moments.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Oh, shit,” Tommy grumbled, blinking rapidly. Wilbur gaped, a mixture of disbelief and slight amusement turning his face an odd expression between shock and laughter. Tommy recoiled, stammering.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I just wanted to scare him a little!” the boy paced, glancing to the heap at the foot of The Dome. “I mean, I’m sure he’ll be fine, right?”</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur opened his mouth to respond, when a faint movement caught his eye; the scavengers they had met the day prior were emerging from the fence on the opposite side, eyes set on the boy they had just struck down. Luckily, they hadn’t been spotted, but he couldn’t say for how much longer things would stay that way.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, run,” he urged quietly. </p><p>
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</p><p>The blonde stared at him, eyes wide with adrenaline, and he decided he didn’t need to be told twice. The two of them hurtled past greenery as they beelined for their camp, the place they had set off from at dawn. It was an easier journey to than it had been fro, and soon they found themselves leaned against the very same bark they had slept upon, chests heaving with abandoned breath.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Well, that was eventful,” Tommy panted, throwing his duffle bag to the side and rolling the sore joint where the strap had dug into. Wilbur laughed, a loud, unruly laugh that shook him to his core.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Eventful? You just fucking<em> stoned a boy to death</em>!” he squawked through the fits of breathlessness. Tommy whipped to face him, accusatory comment bubbling in his throat, but instead he averted his gaze.</p><p>
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</p><p>“It was just a fuckin’ <em> pebble</em>, Wilbur, it’s not like it’s actually gonna kill him,” he grumbled, cheeks flushing. “Besides, I’m sure I saw him move! Like, maybe just a little, but I did!”</p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy tried desperately to ignore the continuous guffaw he heard from Wilbur’s direction, busying himself with sorting the lootings of their expedition.</p><p>
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</p><p>“It’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyway,” he grumbled as a means of remedying the situation. </p><p>
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</p><p>However, this proved only to worsen the man’s laughter.</p><p>
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</p><p>And so the third dusk was spent with a man and a boy, one overjoyed, the other less so, but comfortable and safe nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. the dawn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wilbur treats Tommy's wounds, and they begin to make a house a home.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! I know this is the first note I'm leaving on this story (forgive me, I'm very new to AO3), but I just want to say that the support already on this story has been amazing! I am reading every comment, I assure you, and have genuinely cried real tears over the kind words. That being said, as some of you may know, the Rust SBI server unfortunately was deleted. Don't fret, though, for this shall not deter me! It just means that a lot more of this story is going to be improvised than I originally had intended. I'm aiming for around thirty chapters, though I may not reach that - it all depends on just how much creativity this small brain of mine can manage, I suppose. I hope you'll stick around long enough to see that! Anyhow, enjoy the filler fluff until I gather my bearings :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Stay. Still.” </em>
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</p><p>“No, bitch! It fuckin’ hurts!” Tommy groaned, writhing in place. Wilbur heaved a frustrated sigh. </p><p>
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</p><p>The two had spent the morning building a small camp atop a hill, high enough to where they could see The Dome, but at a low enough altitude that the air was still thick and the wind was still light. They had only acquired a foundation when Tommy’s wounds began to ache, and Wilbur was reminded of the medicine they had looted the previous day. And so, much to the protest of a certain blond, they had sat upon the wooden floor and begun to treat his ailments.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, I haven’t even put the salve on yet,” Wilbur stressed, setting aside the cotton gauze he had been sterilizing the abrasions with. Tommy pouted, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the wooden foundation, kicking them back and forth. Wilbur let out an incredulous laugh.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You’re acting like a child,” he ridiculed, crossing his arms as he got to his feet, towering over the boy. </p><p>
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</p><p>“I am the biggest of men, dickhead,” Tommy grumbled, wiping away a crimson droplet that had seeped from a reopened gash. He stared at the smear with distaste.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You’re also doing a bit of a shit job,” he noted, swiping the gauze for himself and roughly dabbing his face, refraining from expressing the pain this caused so as to prove he could do better than Wilbur had. </p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur, however, wasn’t fooled.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Give it here,” he commanded. Tommy retaliated for a moment, holding the gauze just out of arm’s reach, but gave in quickly when the man quirked a menacing brow. With a delicate grasp, Wilbur tilted the boy’s face to the side, dipping the gauze in the odorous herbal salve they had acquired from The Dome. The once purple mottle around his jaw had eased to a sickly yellow; he still winced, though, when the man swiped a calloused thumb over it.</p><p>
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</p><p>“This is gonna hurt,” Wilbur warned, readying his hand over the wounds. Tommy stared him directly in the eyes, searching for any sign of uncertainty, before nodding and clenching his own shut. </p><p>
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</p><p><em> “Motherfucker,” </em> Tommy yowled, clamping a hand over his mouth as the salve made contact with his damaged skin. Wilbur frowned, attempting to make quick work of the aide. He wasn’t the best at healthcare, he quickly realised. But he was doing a better job than if the adolescent were to try alone, and he took comfort in that fact.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I thought you were a big man,” Wilbur quipped through a forced smile. Tommy scowled, blinking back the tears threatening to spill. </p><p>
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</p><p>“I am, bitch,” he affirmed, sniffing sharply as he sturdied himself. He’d never admit that he was in pain - a clear display of his unparalleled pride, he liked to think. But of course, a boy such as himself <em> would </em> feel pain, perhaps even more so than a man of Wilbur’s years. </p><p>
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</p><p>“You’re doing well, Toms,” Wilbur murmured. If either of them noticed the endearing name that left his lips, neither of them commented on it. Instead, Tommy leaned in to the gentle touch. He’d never experienced any physical affection (unless you counted the constantly pulsating imprint of The Burning upon his skin, though he really wasn’t sure he would), and at his first exposure, he felt his eyelids droop, despite the intermittent sting of the gauze upon his face. It took all his will to not protest when the hand retracted.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Don’t fall asleep on me, child,” Wilbur taunted, startling the boy wide awake. Tommy laughed humorlessly as the man smoothed a beige plaster over the sterilised areas.</p><p>
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</p><p>“There we go, good as new,” he smiled confidently, taking a step back to admire his handiwork and gathering the equipment in one scoop of his arm. He turned around, packing away the supplies hurriedly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Well, I wouldn’t say good as new,” Tommy uttered, rubbing his sore jaw with a bittersweet grin. “But it’s still pretty good, I guess.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Shut up and come help,” Wilbur rolled his eyes, extending a hand of which the boy grabbed gladly, hauling himself to his feet. They had gathered a substantial amount of materials in the early hours of the morning, and now, when the sun was at its highest in the sky, they could begin to work on a home. </p><p>
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</p><p>The hours of the day passed by sluggishly. Labour was difficult, a fact they thought themselves prepared for, but a fact that left them winded and covered in a thick sheen of sweat nonetheless. Tommy often found himself needing to rest, the feeling of clothes clinging to clammy skin sending a shudder through his bones. Wilbur did a majority of the building - his height made him perfect for assembling the things that Tommy could not reach, while Tommy’s lithe frame allowed him a sense of swiftness in the smaller tasks. It was more likely than not that he was tasked with gathering thatch or kindling a fire; not that he minded, though. </p><p>
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</p><p>They moved at a faster pace than expected despite the painfully slow progression of time, having thrown together a whole first floor by the time the sky began to haze a warm orange. Tommy had already claimed an area for his own; he deemed it his <em> Thinking Palace, </em> though Wilbur doubted he did much thinking at all in the small, empty room. A makeshift wardrobe sat in the corner of the house, and inside they stored their essentials, such as their food and hazmat suits. They made a passing note to secure a lock onto the scrap-metal door - they couldn’t afford to be robbed. </p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy made many mistakes during the process, so many that Wilbur questioned how he had been able to survive as long as he did in the wilderness, alone. When asked, the boy gave him a messy, withdrawn grin, and simply said; <em> “I coped.” </em> Wilbur didn’t want to press the matter further, but found himself needing to intervene on multiple occasions, most notably when Tommy attempted to drink their furnace fuel, or when he lit the campfire directly beside their thatch bundle. <em> “Now, will this burn the house down?” </em> he had pondered aloud, and the older man had just barely managed to quench the flame in time before the yellow tendrils managed to spark disaster. He’d harshly reprimanded the young boy for that, and the guilt lay heavy on his chest as the day progressed. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Wilbur, where should I place our beds?” Tommy’s shrill voice snapped him out of his guilt-ridden dusk daydream. </p><p> </p><p>“Um, just there will do,” he directed, pointing a grimey finger towards the corner beneath the stairs. It was the only area in the open room that had a semblance to shelter, and by the way the humidity hung densely in the air, Wilbur wasn’t entirely sure that the weather would remain clear. </p><p>
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</p><p>Tommy complied, laying out the sleeping bags that they had scavenged neatly beside one another. He flopped down onto the one closest to the wall almost immediately, revelling in the soft fabric with a satisfied groan. </p><p>
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</p><p>“My back hurts <em> so fuckin’ bad,” </em> he complained, voice a pitchy whine. Wilbur swiftly unwrapped a protein bar from his bag, stuffing it into his mouth as he chucked another to the boy, who made no effort to catch it.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Says the child who did the least work possible,” he taunted, crouching down next to the fire and watching the flames dance. His stomach growled wantonly, not quite satisfied with the meagre meal after such a taxing day, but Wilbur ignored it, instead opting to poke the kindling with a small stick, eyes following the ashes that jumped from the heap.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Oi, I still worked hard! Shut up, old man,” Tommy retorted with an offended snort as his eyes fell shut on impulse. His whole body was practically melting into the sheets he laid upon, and briefly, he thought of his guitar, propped up beside the wardrobe. He grunted faintly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Hey, Wilbur?” the teen left the enquiry to hang in the air for a moment. Wilbur turned his head with a quiet noise of recognition, dimmed by the crackling of the fire.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Do you...know how to play the guitar?” Tommy chanced, angling his torso so he could now make eye contact with the haggard brunet. Wilbur chuckled lowly, standing upright and pulling a small black object from his coat pocket. The boy had to squint hard to figure out what it was.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Funnily enough, I do,” Wilbur hummed smugly, twiddling the guitar pick between his fingers as he strolled towards the instrument. “But I thought I told you that already. Come on, Toms, is it that easy to forget things about me?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“I was tired,” Tommy mumbled, denial clear in his sleep-slurred voice. The man let out a fond exhalation.</p><p> </p><p>“When <em> aren’t </em>you tired,” he jested, picking up the guitar with one hand and slinging it around his neck. He settled on the ground next to Tommy, leaning back against their thatch walls with a slight sigh. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Can you play me a song?” the boy pleaded quietly. He had already adjusted himself so that his small frame was beneath the covers, and he looked so comfortable that Wilbur almost refused - after all, he didn’t want to keep him from his sleep any longer than necessary.</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “Please?” </em>Tommy tried again, having seen the apprehension on Wilbur’s face. The man shook his head in defeat as he shifted beneath the fabric himself. </p><p>
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</p><p>“What do you want me to play, hm?” Wilbur’s voice was hushed. The sky was a deep sea of endless indigo, and the world felt so <em> quiet </em> that he found himself whispering.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Mm...Anything, ‘s up to you,” came the garbled response from the sleep-hazed teen. Wilbur contemplated for a moment, pondering the songs that he could play via muscle memory of many years passed. Then, he remembered one with a sweet melody, and he began to strum.</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “The cute bomber jacket you’ve had since sixth form, adorned with patches of places you’ve been,” </em> the man sang, voice like molten honey in the way it soothed. Wilbur wasn’t entirely sure what the lyrics meant, but could tell by the muffled sigh of contentment that the boy was enjoying it, and so he continued.</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “Is nothing on my khaki coat I got from a roadside when I was 16; my boots are from airports, my backpack’s from friends, I’m not a man of substance, and so I’ll pretend,” </em> the lyrics progressed. Wilbur found himself fighting a lump in his throat - the man in the song felt nostalgic, almost. Tommy, on the other hand, was lulled by the calming melody. After years in solitude, playing his guitar to a grand audience of none in a feeble attempt to bring sleep, the sole fact that the song was being played by somebody other than himself was so very inconceivable.</p><p>
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</p><p>The fourth dusk was a time of great comfort, where a man strummed a familiar but forgotten tune, and a boy re-lived his youth but in a way that made the years of loneliness slightly less rife.</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And if said boy heard the man’s gentle <em> “Goodnight, Toms,” </em> as the song’s final chords faded, he didn’t mind in the slightest.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. the union</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tommy and Wilbur visit an old friend, and a new opportunity presents itself.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The house on the hill before them wasn't imposing in the least.</p><p>
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</p><p>Sure, it was larger in size than their own meagre home, but the walls were thin and the door seemed to be permanently ajar. The structure reminded Tommy of his old shack, a gust away from collapse, only without the homely air that made up for the sheer impracticality.</p><p>
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</p><p>“So, Wilbur, what <em> exactly </em> are we doing here?” Tommy catechized, hands on his hips as he looked upwards. A faint breeze rustled his blond curls in an interesting manner, and the bitterness of the cold pricked his skin a blotchy red. Wilbur regarded him with an incredulous brow raised - he’d advised that he wear a coat, but alas, the teen was too stubborn to accept the command of anybody but himself. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Ranboo said he lived nearby, yeah? This is the only house I’ve seen near us so far. We’re checking if he’s alive, Toms,” the man explained distantly. Tommy’s face dropped almost immediately, head whipping towards him.</p><p>
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</p><p>“This is <em> Ranboo’s </em> house? Jeez, you could’ve told me, man! I’m not ready to meet the spirit of the guy I literally just murdered n’ shit,” he distressed, voice wobbling with unprecedented panic. Wilbur rolled his eyes.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy, I’m almost certain that if you <em> did </em> kill him, he wouldn’t want to stick around and haunt you. I’d bet that he’d probably have floated to the next island over by now, purely to escape you,” he spoke the words with humorous intent, but couldn’t help the small inkling that the words were most likely true - hypothetically, of course. Because Ranboo was still alive.</p><p>
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</p><p> Hopefully.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Wow, low blow,” Tommy retorted through a shaky breath. “Are we exploring this bitch or not?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Come on, then,” Wilbur adjured, taking the initiative to begin the climb towards the entrance. The boy followed him hesitantly, hands firm on the curvature of his wooden guitar; Wilbur had been against him bringing it, but after the thirtieth snarky comment (or around about, Tommy lost count after twenty-three), he finally gave in.  The two inched nearer to the door, guards up.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Hello?”  Wilbur ventured, a quiet grunt of dominance being what Tommy opted for rather than a greeting. There was no verbal response, but a small noise pricked their ears, a faint shuffling followed by complete silence. They froze.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Ranboo?” Tommy tried this time, voice catching slightly despite his confident exterior. In truth, he was terrified of the supernatural, and even the possibility that he had <em> killed </em> a boy and was now being <em> haunted </em> for it made him positively petrified, in the most negative way possible. There was a dull ‘ <em> Eep’ </em> from somewhere within the house, then silence once more, and only then did Wilbur’s sharp eyes spot the small tuft of multi-colour hair peeking from the edge of the window.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Ranboo, we can see you. Just come out, we’re not gonna hurt you,” Wilbur softened his voice, much akin to the tone he’d used when first meeting Tommy; it made the boy’s stomach churn, somehow. He shook the feeling away, though. There were more pressing matters at hand. </p><p>
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</p><p>Ranboo slowly emerged from hiding, brows furrowed and body hunched as he stood from crouching beneath the window. His appearance, startling as ever, was slightly worse-for-wear than they remembered him, with tangled hair and ill-fitted clothes. <em> The scavengers </em>, Wilbur coined quickly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Oh my fucking God, you’re alive!” Tommy yelled excitedly, relief turning immediately to elation, then quickly back to reservation as he remembered the situation at hand. He cleared his throat.</p><p>
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</p><p>“You’re alive,” he spoke again, this time sounding confident, as though he’d known all along. “That is quite the fact, hm? How’ve you been old buddy, old pal?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Not great,” Ranboo muttered, stark eyes burning daggers into the ground; he seemed too terrified to meet their eyes, but not terrified enough to conceal his resentment of the two. In an odd way, Wilbur respected that.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Why’s that?” the man pressed further, shifting forwards slightly. Once again, Tommy was reminded of their first meeting, and a spike of some unknown emotion turned his mouth bitter and his body rigid. </p><p>
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</p><p>“If I remember correctly, you guys threatened to stab me and then uh...literally tried to stone me to death - which, yeah, not great and all, but then you just left me to the scavengers,” the boy rambled, wringing his hands together as he tapped his foot skittishly. Tommy’s face crumpled dubiously. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Well, in our defence, boob boy, you are a bit of a bi-”</p><p>
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  <em> “Tommy.” </em>
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</p><p>“Sorry, Wilbur.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Anyway, Ranboo, we <em> are </em> genuinely sorry about that. We were just a bit startled, you see - you’re the first person of Tommy’s age that we’ve met, so I think he was just being extra cautious. Could you find it in your heart to forgive us?” Wilbur’s voice was smooth and soft, persuasive but not in a way that made it sound perverse; genuity at its finest. Tommy’s disgust could not have been more evident. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Wilbur, big man, what are you doing?” he muttered warily, grabbing the sleeve of his yellow sweater and tugging discreetly. The brunet gave him a pointed look, brown eyes practically screaming: <em> I’ve got this, leave it to me. </em>Tommy simply sighed, and let himself fall back from the conversation.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Do- Do I forgive you now?” Ranboo responded, conflicted. Under any other circumstance,  the question would sound mocking, or perhaps sarcastic, but the confusion seeping from the boy’s tone was hard to miss. </p><p>
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</p><p><em> “Yes,” </em> Tommy cut in, before Wilbur could respond. His tone was assertive, impatience with the tedious conversation turning his voice snappy. The man glared at him briefly, before morphing his expression once again into a comforting smile.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Only if you want to, Ranboo,” Wilbur reassured - the grin on his face was sickeningly sweet, sweet to the point it could’ve made Tommy gag with the artificiality of it. It seemed to lull the other adolescent, though, who’s defensiveness was no longer present in his stance. Now, he seemed less terrified than he had been, and his foot had stopped its tapping against the ground.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I forgive you, then,” he nodded slowly, blinking once, then twice, and reaching into his satchel to produce the same book as he had last time. At least, it <em> looked </em> the same; Tommy had no doubt the scavengers had stolen the last one, as would have their ruthless nature. He scribbled something down, and tucked it away once more. There was a clap as the man brought his hands together gleefully. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Fantastic. Great.<em> Wonderful. </em>Now, what do you say to a musical performance?” Wilbur offered, grin not faltering even for a second. </p><p>
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</p><p>Okay, now Tommy was <em> really </em> confused. </p><p>
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</p><p>He glanced down, eyes running over the slender fingers splayed protectively atop his guitar. His mind rifled through the possibilities; <em> was it possible that Wilbur wanted to play for Ranboo?  </em></p><p>
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</p><p>The bitterness was back, sour in a way that made Tommy gnaw at his lip and curl his fists, fingernails digging into soft flesh. Wilbur only played the guitar for <em> him. </em> Nobody else could have that, and that’s what made it so special - the thought of sharing that made <em> ‘seething’ </em> sound mild. Still, he had to admit, he gained a substantial amount of satisfaction from the contestable confusion on the other teen’s face.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What do you mean?” Ranboo queried, head cocked to one side. The sheen of his discoloured skin gleamed dimly in the shadows of his haphazard roof, and Tommy could have sworn he saw the boy’s form glitch briefly, but perhaps the dehydration was playing tricks on him. Wilbur answered not with words but with a gesture. He reached out an arm, slinging it around Tommy’s shoulder.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Tommy’s gonna play you a little song, aren’t you, Toms?” he announced with an unnecessary amount of vigour. Tommy blanched, hands dropping instinctively from the wooden surface of the instrument, as they often did when he was startled. However, an encouraging nod from Wilbur had his fingers right back at the strings. He smiled wide.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yeah. I’m gonna play you a <em> little song </em>,” Tommy bit out through the forced grin. Rusty from days of silent slumber, the boy’s hands took a while to find the melody, but soon the familiar tune was all around him, and he felt at home. For that moment, he didn’t mind the gaze of the strange boy, fearful yet curious. For that moment, nothing mattered but the music. And he was perfectly okay with that.</p><p>
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</p><p>Wilbur, on the other hand, was already carefully formulating his next course of action.</p><p>
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</p><p>“So, Ranboo, you ever heard of The Dome?” the man spoke fluidly, leaving no room in his interrogatory words for hesitation. Ranboo glanced between the two strangers; the music, despite being there to comfort, was doing a better job at overwhelming the boy than soothing him. His answer was quick.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yes,” he articulated faster than he could think, subsequently cringing. “I mean-- yes, I have seen a Dome like structure.”</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “The Dome,” </em> Wilbur cautioned sternly.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Sorry, <em> The Dome </em>,” Ranboo hiccuped in a timid retort.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Good,” the man smiled once more, leaning forwards. “And how do you <em> feel </em> about The Dome, Ranboo?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“I, uh..<em> .Good? </em> It makes me feel...Good,” the teen’s brow was slick with sweat, squinted eyes  analysing every move the strangers made, and basing his responses on their mannerisms. It had served him well so far, but there was no telling when he’d misstep.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Well done, Ranboo, that was the correct answer,” Wilbur praised - Ranboo hated the way he melted at the kindness. It left him vulnerable, defenseless. He couldn’t be alert when his entire being was practically putty in the man’s hands. And putty he was; unable to move, even as he watched Wilbur produce a knife, inching closer.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Now, you’re gonna answer this next question correctly too, <em> right? </em>” he prompted. Tommy’s hands stilled momentarily, eyes widening as he watched the man in awe. Then, he was back to his music - he trusted Wilbur, after all. </p><p>
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</p><p>“What question?” Ranboo whispered, terror clear in his bright eyes. The air around them had turned tense, lead-like as opposed to the previous brisk morning breeze. </p><p>
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</p><p>“You <em> love </em> and <em> worship </em> The Dome, don’t you, Ranboo?”</p><p>
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</p><p>The teen shuddered, not daring to meet the brunet’s eyes, but not quite daring to look away. Instead, he chose to analyse. The man was leaned forward - <em> eagerness, anticipation </em> . His face was stretched into a wide grin - <em> too wide to be genuine? </em>Ranboo would have looked to his memory book at this moment, but under the point of a silver blade, he had no choice but to follow his instincts, and fast.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Yes, I love and worship The Dome; i-in fact, my entire <em> life </em> is owed to The Dome,” he forced out, mock-enthusiasm seemingly appeasing Wilbur far more than he’d expected. He caught sight of the blond <em> (Tommy?) </em> eyeing the man with an odd mixture of fear and awe, hands mindlessly strumming as he stared despite the cuts appearing thick and fast on his dirt-smeared fingers. </p><p>
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</p><p>“You have <em> no idea </em> how happy that makes me, Ranboo. For that, we’ll give you a reward,” Wilbur nodded, pleased with the outcome. He reached into the small pack he kept around his waist, extracting something from its depths. Ranboo flinched automatically.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Calm down,” the man laughed, rolling his eyes patronisingly. “It’s just a hammer and some nails. Maybe they’ll be of help to your house, ey?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Y-yeah, thank you,” Ranboo muttered. He kept his head hung low as he tentatively reached out, grabbing the gifts and immediately withdrawing, as though he’d touched something scaldingly hot.  The music finally came to a halt.</p><p>
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</p><p>“So, are we done here or what?” Tommy cut in. While his social skills were most <em> definitely </em> sub-par, he could tell when a situation was best abandoned, and this particular situation was practically the epitome.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Not <em> just </em> yet,” Wilbur responded, seemingly distracted by something. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tommy grumbled quietly. “Head inside, Boob Boy. We’ll see you around, yeah?”</p><p>
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</p><p>Ranboo looked towards him, distressed, but the blond simply jerked his head to the door, and he felt himself scrambling to comply. He could only sigh as he slammed the plank behind him, and prayed that he never saw the two again.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What now, Wilbur?” the teen groaned exasperatedly, shifting around on his tired feet. He didn’t like standing still, especially not for long periods of time, and after his performance, the balls of his feet were practically <em> screaming </em> with agony - and no, he wasn’t exaggerating in the slightest. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Look at this,” the man muttered, reaching towards a small wooden box situated by the grassy path leading up to the house. Messily engraved into the top was the writing <em> “Ranboo’s Mailbox” </em> . Tommy had to fight the urge to place a <em> ‘b’ </em> after the <em> ‘Ranboo’ </em>, but looked closer nonetheless.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What exactly is it that I’m meant to be looking at?” Tommy probed, crouching to inspect it, but not entirely <em> getting </em> it.</p><p>
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</p><p>“It’s a mailbox, Toms. It’s where people leave letters and gifts,” Wilbur explained concisely, ruffling the boy’s curls as he dropped down beside him. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Why would anybody want to give Boob Boy <em> gifts?” </em></p><p>
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</p><p>“We<em> literally </em> just gave him gifts.”</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “Oh. </em>”</p><p>
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</p><p>“Anyway, as I was saying, a mailbox is for gifts and letters. And what can we gain from gifts and letters?” Wilbur spoke slowly, trying to draw the conclusion from the boy himself.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Shit to steal and shit to blackmail?”</p><p>
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</p><p>“I was gonna say intel, but that works too,” the man sighed fondly, before diving straight into unlatching the box. He fumbled with it more than he cared to admit, pressured by the adolescent closely pressed to his side, who had decidedly held his breath in anticipation. The box fell open, revealing a single envelope.</p><p>
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</p><p>“What does it say? What does it say?” Tommy urged excitedly as Wilbur pulled it from the small space, tearing it open. He scanned it momentarily.</p><p>
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</p><p>“On the front it says: ‘From Jack Manifold’”,” he read aloud, brows drawn into one another. </p><p>
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</p><p>“What the fuck is a <em> Jack Manifold? </em> It sounds like a bad sex posi-  wait, no, can’t say that,” Tommy cringed at his own words, quickly covering his tracks. Not that it mattered much to Wilbur, who was currently immersed in the text, paying little notice to the world around him.</p><p>
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</p><p>“I don’t think it’s a what, I think it’s a who,” he breathed. It had been a long time since he’d read anything, and even the messily scrawled letter brought back a wave of nostalgia from his nights spent huddled by the fire in the cottage. He ignored the barking laughter of Tommy, who was repeatedly wheezing <em> ‘What a stupid fuckin’ name!’. </em></p><p>
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</p><p>“It says that Jack Manifold is hosting a housewarming party tonight, and it has a map of how to get there,” Wilbur recounted, looking up finally to meet the baby-blue eyes of the adolescent, now teary with laughter. Tommy wiped his cheeks as he calmed himself.</p><p>
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</p><p>“A party? Hell fuckin’ yeah!” he exclaimed after he’d processed the information, pausing for a second as though doing a mental double-take. “Wait, we are going, right?</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “Of course we are. </em> What kinda’ guys would we be if we didn’t crash a party or two in our lifetime?” the man responded, the mischievous glint in his eyes nearing the line of malice. </p><p>
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</p><p>The two exchanged an impish grin, and set off home, neither bothering to replace the letter; the only thing that mattered now was the festivity. A festivity they’d both be attending. <em> No matter what. </em></p><p>
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</p><p>The fifth dusk wasn’t present in the atmosphere. Instead, it presented itself as foreboding clouds gathered menacingly on the horizon. Wilbur had been right; the weather wouldn’t stay clear. </p><p><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>But nobody can tell <em> just how big </em> of a storm is coming until it hits.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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